High Windows
by Pocketbook-Angel
Summary: Lestrade asks Sherlock to take on a case involving a missing artist. Sherlock does some thinking, John does most of the actual work, and Lestrade tries his best to keep Sherlock from finding out too much. Set a few days after The Hounds of Baskerville. Complete
1. Chapter 1

"_A three-in-bed will not solve the underlying issues with communication._ Wrong. Lisa from Bexley is obviously trying to tell her husband she fancies his brother; actions speak louder than words, so there is nothing wrong with her communication."

"Really?" Was it disingenuous, or had Sherlock sincerely not recognised the sarcasm in John's enthusiastic response to the offer to read newspaper advice columns to him over breakfast?

_Are you home? – GL_

A text from Lestrade could mean that a really exciting crime had happened and Lestrade was coming over to share, or it could mean he was going to complain about PACE and ask boring questions about cases that were already solved. Since Lestrade liked to have his team blindly trample crime scenes before calling him, it probably wasn't a really good murder. There was another possibility; after they'd gotten back to London from Dartmoor the other day, Lestrade had insisted on taking him to dinner and talking. Two hours for Lestrade to tell him what he already knew: _I don't spy on you for your brother_.

Anyway, his morning was already booked. There was toast to eat and human nature to study.

_No. - SH_

Before Sherlock could hit send, Lestrade was on the stairs. He briefly considered the undignified move of pretending not to be at home, but even an incompetent detective would see the pile of toast and know John wasn't eating alone.

As Lestrade stepped through the door, he said the magic words.

"I have a case for you."

The girl with Lestrade wore her pale shoulder length hair tucked behind her ears. Everything about her said not-police: expensive handbag, asymmetrical red skirt, impractical shoes, smudged and reapplied eye makeup, tights with a neglected run starting in the heel, pockets stuffed with tissue, emotional distress barely held in check. John saw the tissues and the makeup, but he also saw that she was pretty.

"He said you could help me," she said.

"That depends. This is something low priority, fraud, or someone is missing." Sherlock quickly glanced at her left hand and then at her shoes. "You work as a secretary, sorry, PA, there's money involved, the patterned tights and clever jacket say it's not a conservative industry like banking, and there's the grime and rust you haven't completely cleaned off your shoes. You've been around industrial equipment very recently, but it's too early for you to be coming from anywhere outside central London. There aren't any factories here, so that leaves studios. You work as an assistant for an artist of some kind and somehow you've lost him."

The girl burst into tears and collapsed in the chair across from Sherlock.

"Has it been in the papers already?" Lestrade asked.

"You know me better than that. Who's missing?" Lestrade and the girl stared at him blankly. "I don't follow contemporary art.

"Is it Stephen Murstow, the conceptual artist? I remember there was some controversy about the human hamster cage..." John tried to think of a way to describe the piece without sounding like he thought it was complete bollocks. The girl worked for him, so it could be assumed she was a fan. "What's your name?"

"Penelope Fernsley-Wells. Stephen never leaves London, never. When I couldn't find him yesterday, I thought he might have his mobile turned off and we were just missing each other. But not two days in a row. He doesn't do anything but work, not even drink anymore. And he rejects the label "conceptual," says it's dated and limiting."

Lestrade moved toward the door. "Can I leave her with you? We already know he's not in the morgue or hospital. Since adults are allowed to travel around without telling anyone, it may take a few more days for a real investigation to start." Penny sniffled a little at the word _morgue_.

"If the police can't be bothered, why should I be?" Sherlock said.

"Because he is well-known, although not to you, this case will get attention, eventually, and you enjoy showing up the police on the front page of the tabloids."

"Tell me about him."

Penny put down her tissues. "In 1989, he was an integral part of the New Generations show, a movement against parochialism in British art—"

"Not you. Lestrade, tell me about him. Why are you involved in this?"

"I called him," Penny said. She pulled out her phone. "I keep Stephen's calendar, and after the desk sergeant was so rude to me, I remembered he'd mentioned meeting a policeman friend, so I checked his contacts."

Sherlock leaned forward as if he was listening to Penny, but he kept his eyes on Lestrade. _Policeman friend._ Lestrade didn't like that._ He's trying hard to stay neutral_. Sherlock was both pleased and annoyed by Lestrade's behaviour around him – it was flattering that he respected Sherlock's talents enough to bother hiding his emotional state, but it was annoying that he often succeeded. _I should never have let him know that his coat gives away the state of his marriage._ He was clearly attracted to the girl, but in a mild, meaningless way that wouldn't explain his willingness to bring her to Baker Street. Lestrade looked into his eyes, _stop it Sherlock_, as clearly as if he'd said it out loud. Sherlock let his eyes travel down Lestrade's body. _Let him wonder what I'm seeing._

"I visited Murstow at his studio on Sunday," Lestrade said.

"Tell me about it," Sherlock said sharply.

"There's nothing to tell, really. My wife worked for him about twenty years ago, before we were married, so he called me when he needed some advice. A gallery in Los Angeles was selling fakes, not fakes, something to do with licensing his technique. I didn't understand it, and I told him that he'd have to call the American FBI."

"Could his disappearance have to do with the forgeries?" John asked.

"I don't think so. He didn't seem that concerned."

Sherlock stood up. "One glance at his studio should tell if it's a dirty weekend or a dead body. John, please go with Lestrade and glance at it for me."

"Not my case. Penny has this already, but if you find anything, call him and not me." Lestrade handed John a business card.

Penny smiled hopefully. "The New Generations show initially met with resistance from critics, calling it thematically empty and promoting a neo-colonialist agenda under the guise of irony and absurdism," she said.

"Miss Fernsley, unless he was kidnapped by an unhappy critic, his art is not relevant to this case."

"Why don't you tell me about it on the way?" John shook his head, a barely perceptible movement, _Sherlock, that was unkind._

Sherlock scrolled through the twenty years of Stephen Murstow's career: born 1962, Goldsmiths, taxidermy, lots of drinking, genre paintings, more drinking, dots, Zen meditation, "Jerusalem", the human hamster cage set up in a park in Hackney. Lestrade had said _nothing to tell_, but he was a terrible liar. Sherlock wondered how he could have had any kind of career before they'd met. He clicked on the thumbnail for "Jerusalem" and watched tiny art patrons staggering out of the giant plastic tubes, gratefully throwing themselves at the green and pleasant land waiting below.

Murstow's Soho studio was in a quiet and deceptively shabby mews where film companies and advertising agencies lurked behind the exposed bricks and peeling paint. Bicycles were lined up in front of a building with blacked out windows across from the one that housed the studio. Penny pushed open the door.

"Stephen is bad with keys, so we usually keep this unlocked." She hurried down the hall and up a flight of stairs.

"He's not back," she said. "Feel free to walk around, take pictures, um, video? I don't want to be in the studio right now, it feels too strange without Stephen."

"What do you see, John?" Sherlock called out from the speaker.

"Offices, advertising, post-production, something internet, another internet thing."

"The kinds of businesses where people stare at screens all day. And they probably don't do anything useful like smoke in the courtyard."

"Do you want me to talk to them?"

"Don't bother."

"I'm running out of battery. What else do you want to see?" John continued filming as he walked into the building. "The ground floor is divided into two offices. On the right, C2, which is—"

"Public relations." A woman with severely bobbed hair peered out through the door. "Product launches, independent film. Are you from the police? We talked to them already." Her accent retained faint traces of New York.

"Helping the police, not from the police," John said.

"This is our office, C2, stands for Corwin and Corwin. I'm one Corwin, the bloke on the phone is the other." A hand waved at them from behind a room divider. Mrs. Corwin pointed to the desks in the middle of the room. "These desks are for our account executives, one is off having a baby and we're interviewing candidates for the other, and the one over there is for our assistant. We've sent her out for sandwiches, but she's only here Tuesdays and Thursdays, so not much help either way. Have you talked to Graham? He has a theory about what happened, not saying I agree with him, but since you're _not_ police, you might want to have a listen."

"Still there, Sherlock? What do you think, studio or talk to someone named Graham?"

"Studio. I could have this solved already if that woman hadn't been going on about sandwiches."

"She only mentioned them once. Studio it is."

Murstow's studio occupied the entire floor. Despite the cloudiness of the day, the room was lit by skylights and floor to ceiling windows that faced the square. The exposed bricks that made up the other walls were painted white. Half of the studio was domestic, a sofa, rectangular wooden table and chairs, and half looked like a scrapyard. Pieces of metal were stacked almost to the ceiling and rusted barrels were tied together with red ribbons, garden spades with broken handles, ladders, incongruous totems of manual labour.

"His latest work. Don't pretend you understand it. I write about this for a living-there's nothing to understand." A tall man in his late forties had followed John up the stairs. John discreetly turned his mobile so Sherlock could see him. His leather jacket and trainers suggested he was hoping to be mistaken for a musician, but his slumped shoulders gave away the hours he spent at a desk.

"I'll trust your opinion then. And you are?"

"Graham Hatherley. I have the office below this, well, half an office at any rate. The other half is rented to a video artist who is spending the grown up equivalent of a gap year photographing orphans in Cambodia."

"The woman downstairs said you might have some idea of what happened?"

"Yeah, I do. Look at this." He walked over to the domestic side of the studio. A worn plaid blanket was neatly folded over the end of the sofa. A pair of trainers had been kicked off at the other end.

"Sherlock, have a look at this. His shoes are still here."

"So he must still be here," Sherlock said. "Is that your theory, Mr. Hatherley?" Sherlock emerged from the stairwell and John wondered, not for the first time, how much effort he put into his dramatic appearances.

"Unless he's been shoved in one of the barrels, he's obviously not here," Hatherley said. The ribbons tied around the barrels were the colour of blood. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Stephen Murstow's PA stopped by to see me today. She's very concerned."

"As she should be. He was murdered."

Sherlock studied Hatherley briefly, then turned to examine the studio. John wondered what Sherlock had seen in Graham Hatherley to make him dismiss the journalist's opinions so quickly. Shaggy hair streaked with grey, baggy cords, to Sherlock it all had meaning.

Sherlock circled the table, and then walked slowly from one end of the studio to the other, as if measuring the length of the room, stepping from triangles of sunshine into shadow.

Hatherley glared at Sherlock's back. "I know what I know. Just because the murderer is a friend of yours," he said.

Sherlock stopped in front of the window with its view of the empty courtyard. Penny was still standing near the door. A messenger emerged from the production house opposite and took off on his bike. "Who cleans these offices," he asked.

"Greg Lestrade killed him! I don't know if he acted alone, or if he came back with his friends from the Met, but I know he killed him. His very last words as he left on Sunday afternoon were _I'll kill you_."

"_They'll_," said a voice from the stairs. "Not that I was listening or anything." The woman from the public relations firm held out her hand to Sherlock. "Marie Corwin, from C2. We see to your PR needs."

"Just the person I wanted to talk to," Sherlock said. "Who cleans these office and how often?"

"A service comes in on Wednesdays and Saturdays. We told them not to do the studio today, just in case. The man who was here on Sunday really did say _They'll kill you_, but that's all I heard," she said.

"Thank you, you've been very helpful. John, I'll meet you back at the flat." Sherlock swept from the studio as quickly and gracefully as he had arrived.

"Has he solved it? Does he know where Stephen went?" Mrs. Corwin asked John.

"He may have, I don't really know. Did you really hear Greg threatening Stephen Murstow?"

"Yes. There was a fight and he left shouting _I'll kill you._"

"_They'll_." Mrs. Corwin corrected him. "But if you're right, maybe he hired someone? The police must know lots of people they could hire, contract killers, thugs."

"Yes, when they're not arresting them, they're giving them jobs," John said.

"One of the blessings of social media is that even disinterested parties like myself can watch their friends carry on in public. Stephen and Nina have been all over each other for the past six months. My guess would be the argument was your typical jealous husband theatrics. Although, I suppose Greg has turned out to be terribly sincere," Hatherley said.

"Nina?"

"Mrs. Lestrade. Don't you know her? It's shocking they've lasted this long. What did Greg expect, taking a woman like Nina off to live in the suburbs, new furniture and no one to talk to except other policemen's wives. He was a fool to think he could make her happy."

"It takes all kinds," Mrs. Corwin sighed. She stared over John's shoulder as if the missing man might be floating behind him. "Did you already check the warehouse? That's where he does his real work. He told me once that he keeps this place to sleep off hangovers. He said that in the old days he used to be able to climb over the roofs from his studio to his club without coming down into the street."

"You knew him fairly well?"

"The first year we moved in, we gave him a tin of biscuits for Christmas and he gave us a lovely sketch, which turned out to be part of his "Metal" series. Quite valuable, but we'd never sell it. Other than a little trouble over smoking in the courtyard, he's been a lovely neighbour."

"Trouble?"

"Oh, not with us, with the design firm opposite. There's no trouble here. I really do think you should check the warehouse."

"Design. Twenty years ago that used to be a knocking shop, an honest business." Hatherley glared at the courtyard below where Penny was talking to a young man who was unlocking one of the bicycles.

"She's asking him if he's seen anything. Now he's saying no," John said. "He's asking her if she wants to get lunch. Now she's saying no." John walked over to the barrels. They were definitely large enough to hold a body.

"We shouldn't touch them, they're art. Besides, wouldn't there be a smell?"

"Since it's been so cold at night, it could take a bit longer than two days, but, yeah, there will be a smell."

"Oh," Mrs. Corwin gasped and covered her mouth, as if decay already filled the air.

"There should be something we can use here," Hatherley said.

The lid to the first barrel popped off easily and crashed to the ground, deeply gouging the floor.

Hatherly ran his hand over the mark. "Stephen owns this building, since we're doing this for him, he shouldn't mind."

"Let's hope that when we find him he's still capable of minding things," John said.

"Can't you kind of tap on them to see if they're empty? Won't they sound different if they're full?" Mrs. Corwin asked.

They watched John tap on the side of the second barrel, third, fourth. All the barrels produced the same clear sound. They were all empty.

"Lestrade." Sherlock leaned into his office and Lestrade cursed his subordinates for not giving him a heads up. "Thought I'd stop by for a chat."

"Solved it already?"

"Almost. There are one or two points that need clarifying, so it would help if everyone would stop lying to me, you included."

"I haven't lied."

"Omitted facts, it's the same thing. The journalist on the ground floor is eager to accuse you of murder. Why? Now, I know you didn't murder anyone—"

"Thank you."

"Because even you wouldn't be stupid enough to bring me in to solve it if you had."

Lestrade's sigh conceded the point.

"According to the journalist, you and Stephen Murstow had an argument that ended with you threatening to kill him. He's lying, but what could you and Murstow possibly have had to talk about?" Sherlock studied Lestrade's impassive face. "You know I'll find out in the end, so stop wasting my time and tell me. And don't try that forgery story again."

"The forgery story was the reason Murstow wanted to talk to me. We hadn't seen each other in about fifteen years. Nina, that's my wife, you forgetful bastard, insisted we go to his group show at the Tate."

"I know your wife's name, she worked for Murstow in the early 90s, so that show would have had pieces he started while she was there. What is her relationship with Graham Hatherley?"

"Is that important?"

"Time wasting, Lestrade."

"They were living together when we met and I was…" Lestrade was doing that thing again, that thing with his mouth that meant he was thinking too much about what to say next. "Did he really accuse me of murder?"

"Quite gleefully."

"That's going to be trouble."

Sherlock wished he had brought John along. Although John's skills of observation were merely above average, he was sometimes surprisingly good at understanding what people were saying when they weren't saying much at all. There was something unhappy in Lestrade's face, and something else that Sherlock didn't understand at all.

John took Penny to lunch before returning to Baker Street. She hadn't eaten much, but had been happy to talk about her boss and his work, and she did her best to change John's mind about the artistic merit of the hamster cage.

"Sherlock, we checked the barrels, there wasn't anything inside."

"Why? Were you looking for the body? That would be a terrible place to put it, dead weight, trying to shove it in so you can get the lid back on," Sherlock said.

"I wouldn't know about that. By the way, why are you on my laptop?"

"Mine is somewhere, not here. Look at this," Sherlock said.

"With your deductive skills it should be simple to find your own computer equipment," John said.

Sherlock tilted the screen so John could see what he'd collected.

"CCTV?"

"The south entrance to the mews. Monday morning, 7:02, enter DI Lestrade. 7:16, exit DI Lestrade. 7:36, the hard-working Mr. and Mrs. Corwin, 7:43, the stylish, ecologically correct, and from our point of view, useless Jim, Terry, and Nicola on their road bikes. More useless people, and now, 8:58, the faithful Penny arrives."

John watched Sherlock flip between 7:02 and 7:16. "Did Greg say he'd been in there on Monday? Is fourteen minutes long enough…"

"To murder someone? Possibly. What do you see?" Lestrade entering the mews filled the screen. "Even now, the mornings can be a little cold." Sherlock switched to Lestrade leaving the mews.

"Not that cold," John said. They both stared at Lestrade, striding out to the street, wearing gloves he hadn't been wearing fourteen minutes earlier.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and John watched Lestrade enter and exit the mews.

"One of Lestrade's many failings as a detective is his lack of imagination, unsurprisingly, he carries that into his criminal career," Sherlock said.

"Oh, he can't have had anything to do with it. He's been so kind and helpful." Penny waited patiently by the door, tucking her pale hair behind her ears.

"Kind people are just as capable of murder as anyone else." Sherlock was a little puzzled by Penny's presence in the flat. Having dismissed her as a suspect, he had dismissed her from his mind. He should have taken into account John's habit of picking up useless girls like they were cheese samples from Sainsbury's.

"He thinks, I don't want to leave prints, which means there is something, maybe a safe, that he saw on Sunday, but wasn't able to touch." Sherlock glared at the screen. "It really is fortunate that Lestrade didn't go in for being a criminal; his tenacity and good looks may have gotten him far in the Met, but the criminal world expects results and he would have ended at the bottom of the Thames."

"Good looks?" John said. Sherlock could make anything into an insult.

"I think he's good looking, even if he is old enough to be—" The mobile in Penny's hand buzzed. "It's Stephen! He's sent me a text." Her face brightened with relief.

"Let me see that. _Sorry to worry you silent meditation retreat no phones allowed back in london soon. _I'm sorry, Penny, this confirms it. He's dead." Sherlock waited for her to start crying again.

"Is this text from the man who killed him? Do you want me to answer it?" Her eyes were dry and very clear.

"Yes, thank him and say you're glad he's safe. And if he texts again, for example, _meet me at the warehouse at midnight alone don't tell anyone_, forward it to me immediately. But, it's unlikely you'll get another text because everything should be cleared up by tonight."

"Is it alright if I go to the warehouse and tell them Stephen won't be coming? Everyone's been waiting since yesterday to start work." She could stop worrying now that the worst had happened.

"This case is really quite simple, but there are a few details I don't like." Sherlock picked up a magazine and stretched out on the sofa.

"Now that you've solved it, time for light reading?"

"Research, always research. Here." He tossed the magazine at John.

"1991 Winona Ryder. Everyone fancied her back then."

"I didn't."

"Of course not, you were too young and too… you."

"Take a look at the 'street style' pages, or, there's this. What do you think?" Sherlock held up another magazine. A dark-haired girl with long legs stared down the camera.

"Are you asking me to observe? She's not really wearing enough clothing for that."

"You could try reading the caption. _Nina, 21, My personal style is "Modern Bloomsbury," like Virginia Woolf in Ibiza._ Graham Hatherley had a copy of this pinned to a board in his office."

"Nina, as in Nina Lestrade. I didn't know."

"This is about a year before the Lestrades got married, so she would have been living with Hatherley. He's been carrying a grudge for a long time now. It's a neat trick, isn't it? Framing the husband for the lover's murder. I think a visit to Mrs Lestrade is in order."

* * *

The wind had picked up as they left West Hampstead station, attacking Sherlock and John with litter and leaves torn from the carefully tended gardens. Sherlock unfolded the map he'd printed; even to the most skilled observer, the rows of terraces that curved around them all looked very much alike.

Lestrade never talked about his wife. She taught art history, and was always leaving Lestrade or coming back. Most of the CID men Sherlock knew were working on their second or third divorces; Lestrade's marriage could be considered a model of stability.

Sherlock waved Lestrade's warrant card in front of the entry phone.

"Nina Lestrade? We work with your husband."

"So we're not actually pretending to be police. Good," John said.

Nina Lestrade opened the door. A few lines around her eyes, far more clothing, but she was definitely the woman from the magazine.

"Has something happened to Greg?"

"May we come in?" Sherlock didn't wait for a yes. The flat was saturated with her presence even though she hadn't yet unpacked her suitcases. The overstuffed chairs, the sofa, they all looked as if she had been sprawled there a moment before, stretching out her long, perfectly tanned legs.

"Are you anti-corruption? If you're investigating his finances, you should know this flat isn't ours, it belongs to my sister and her husband. They tired of all the construction and staying in the country until after the Olympics." In the depths of her handbag, a mobile buzzed angrily and was ignored.

"We're here because someone is making serious accusations. Do you know a man named Graham Hatherley?" The buzzing continued. "You can get that if you'd like," Sherlock said.

Nina answered her phone with a slightly ironic whisper. "Not now, darling, my husband's colleagues are here. Inspector Holmes and Constable Watson want to ask me questions." She turned the phone off and set it on the table.

"_Constable _Watson?"

"Sorry, would you like a promotion?" She turned her smile on, the one that made promises. John found himself prepared to forgive the insult.

"Are you having an affair with Stephen Murstow?" Sherlock asked. The eye contact that appeared to be going on next to him was disturbing.

"What?" The question was so unexpected, Sherlock knew the answer was no.

"According to Hatherley, you have been 'all over each other' for the past six months."

"Graham, so dirty-minded and yet so ignorant. I never slept with Stephen, not now, not then. I wanted him to give a lecture—my students this year are dull and overly committed to realism—but he rarely leaves London unless he's promised vast amounts of money. Rarely, but not never; he's cleared a Friday in May for us. In exchange, I'm going to help him with his book."

"Is that all?"

"I don't understand," Nina said eventually. "Why are you here—does Greg want a divorce? But he wouldn't ask _you_ to collect evidence unless he was trying to make a point. We had a terrible row on Boxing Day thanks to you." John remembered Sherlock's comment about an affair, and it was obvious that Sherlock remembered as well and was pleased at having made the correct deduction.

"It wasn't about what you told him, it was about your Christmas present," she said.

"My present? He didn't give me a present."

"I found it when I was unpacking his bag. He said he'd forgotten. Poor Greg, all of his shopping done at the train station this year, but yours was beautifully wrapped." A few musical notes sounded from her handbag, announcing the arrival of a text. The phone on the table was silent. Two mobiles, Sherlock noted.

"You still haven't told me why you're here. He does know that abandoning me in Spain to chase after you in Dartmoor counts as unreasonable behaviour, doesn't he? I don't want—I think we can settle everything quietly—no need to drag Stephen or Graham into anything."

"Stephen Murstow was murdered on Sunday. I came here to talk to you because Graham Hatherley has been saying that your husband killed him."

"Murdered?"

"Hatherley heard them arguing Sunday afternoon; he said it was about you."

Nina shook her head. "Murdered," she repeated. "It couldn't be Greg, you know that. I doubt it was Graham, he completely adored Stephen, aside from that, he wouldn't want to lose his office. Stephen hasn't raised his rent since 1994. That's going to change."

"Stephen Murstow owned that building?"

"If you're looking for a murderer, I would start with whichever ex-wife is going to inherit. In your professional opinion, do you think more people are killed for money or for love?"

* * *

Nina wished she could have swallowed her pride and asked Sherlock or John to borrow one of their phones. Maybe Greg would answer now—he must want to talk to her about Stephen's death, even if he wasn't yet ready to forgive her for everything else. They'd met in Stephen's studio. Greg, whose existence she'd heard about but not quite believed in, had brought the artist back after a night of drinking and stayed because it was the responsible thing to do.

"You really are a policeman. We thought it was a joke because you made him throw away his cocaine. I'm Nina, by the way."

"Greg Lestrade."

"You know, Forster was in love with a policeman. Quite bad for his writing. There is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman," Hatherley drawled. He didn't bother to introduce himself.

"A policeman, yeah? Which station?" Greg asked very seriously.

"Sorry, I was talking about E.M. Forster, the writer. Early 20th century."

Nina had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Graham was trying so hard to look down his nose at someone who was the same height as him.

"Is he always like that?" Greg asked once they were alone.

"I'm afraid so."

"You deserve better."

"Is it really over between you and Stephen?"

"I can't be with someone who uses. When you start making exceptions, eventually exceptions are all you make."

"Who would choose drugs over you," Nina said. She threw him a bright glance under her dark lashes, a look that had never failed since she first discovered it at sixteen.

* * *

As they walked back to the station, Sherlock discussed what he called a psychological profile of Nina Lestrade. What Sherlock called psychology, John called gossip, and slightly malicious gossip at that.

"She's still wearing her wedding ring, but the two mobiles suggest on-going affairs. She's a teacher, so it's unlikely the second one is for work. She really enjoyed showing off that post-Spain pedicure. You make a good audience, I suppose. Is she calling someone right now? Lestrade, or the man who called while we were there? At first, I thought that was Lestrade because she expected her caller to know my name, but it may have been someone else entirely."

"Was any of that conversation useful or relevant in any way?"

"Lestrade didn't kill anyone. He is lucky I'm here to sort it out because his colleagues are quite dim and don't appreciate coincidence as I do. As it is, he may get away without his name being mentioned at all."

Sherlock decided against getting off at Baker Street. He'd gathered all the pieces, now they needed to click into place. "I'm going to talk to Lestrade again. Can you go ask Graham, no, ask the Corwins for the ashtray?"

"Ashtray?"

"Yes, that's all we need now."

"Are you going to explain, or are you… no. Ashtray," John muttered, and plunged into the crowds that were switching to the other line.

* * *

The platform at Waterloo was crowded with men in dark coats waiting to be taken home to the suburbs, but Lestrade would recognise that stance, that coat, anywhere.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Waiting for the train, would you believe?" Sherlock said.

"Since you've gone to the trouble of stalking me, do you want to get a coffee?"

* * *

Workers going home, going back to the office after an old-fashioned liquid lunch, cyclists defying traffic laws, tourists peering into shops they could never afford to buy anything from even if by some miracle they happened to be open, petrol fumes mixed with grease and spices—London was noisy and full of awful smells, but John would not have traded it for anywhere else and he was glad that living with Sherlock meant he could live in London. It was more than worth the occasional inconvenient request.

Sherlock said that Lestrade's wife was proud of her legs, which was true, but it would be a sad world if women couldn't show off a little, and no one was free from vanity, even a genius like Sherlock. John smiled a little at the idea of Sherlock, collar deliberately kept at the exact flattering angle, calling other people vain.

The curtains had been drawn over the ground floor windows, but the door to the studio building was unlocked.

"We didn't have a chance to meet earlier, Andrew Corwin." His handshake was a little too hearty, as if he'd never forgotten business school seminars on how good handshakes establish trust. His thinning hair was cropped very short which made his narrow face appear harsh under the office's lights.

"Would you like some tea?" Marie Corwin flipped the electric kettle on. It seemed rude to rush into asking questions, but the alternative, tea and biscuits in the eerily quiet office, seemed much worse.

* * *

"Your wife was not very helpful. Did you tell her to obfuscate, or is she always like that?"

"Many people find it charming."

"She may not have said much, but it was enough." Sherlock picked up two paper-wrapped tubes of sweetener. "In this production, the role of Stephen Murstow will be played by Organic Raw, and DI Lestrade will be played by a stick of saccharin. This cream substitute item will play the heroic role of Graham Hatherley, listener on the stairs."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Murstow says, 'Americans are stealing from me.' Lestrade says, 'Can't help you, mate.' Murstow says, 'I'm writing a memoir, a real kiss and tell, and your bird gets a whole chapter.' 'I don't want my divorce to end in the tabloids.' 'Artistic freedom, nothing personal. Fancy a smoke?' 'No thanks, mate. I've quit. _They'll kill you._'" Sherlock flipped the cream substitute in the air, presumably a representation of Hatherley's reaction to the end of the conversation.

"That's somewhat right."

"Which part is wrong?"

"The part where the saccharin sounds like Ray Winstone."

* * *

"Sherlock asked for the ashtray," Andrew Corwin said.

"Did he ask you to come now? Does anyone know you're here?" Marie Corwin asked.

John wondered if the concept of personal safety was completely foreign to Sherlock.

"Sherlock knows I'm here, as do the police, my sister… basically everyone. So, ashtray?" John put his hand in his pocket and hoped he was speed dialling the right number.

"_They'll kill you_," Sherlock finished with a dramatic flourish.

"That's Michael Caine," Lestrade said, but he was smiling, a real smile, Sherlock decided. His phone rang before he could try again.

* * *

_All I wanted was a few more months. Three months, he knew we had clients lined up, all we needed was time and we could pay double the rent we owed. He started lecturing me on running a business and financial responsibility and how the hell would he know, he made millions stuffing dead animals and calling it art. I wanted him to shut up, I didn't mean to hit him so hard._

Lestrade was grim as Andrew Corwin's voice poured through the speaker. "He'd better repeat all that once we get him in an interview room."

* * *

The arrest of Andrew and Marie Corwin gave them all name recognition they could have ever desired, the coverage they'd failed to achieve for any of their clients. He claimed it was temporary insanity, all of the businesses he didn't understand, kids with their computers, rolling in every morning on their expensive bicycles, making money so easily. Stephen, artist and genius in matters of buying and selling, spending the afternoons on the roof, smoking and watching the dirty clouds stagger across the sky, it wasn't fair. Temporary insanity. He would have turned himself in, but his wife, she said no one would find the body up there, she took his phone, it was all her idea.

"I would prefer if you didn't write this one up for your blog, at least not before the trial. I don't particularly want to testify," Sherlock said.

"This is probably a stupid question—"

"Probably?"

"Did you know the Corwins had done it when you sent me over there?"

"I thought it might be them when I saw their office. A failing business with an expensive address, desperate times. Furniture had been moved around the studio and that told me where to find the body. The table didn't match the way light would come in through the windows. They didn't want anyone to know it was possible to climb up to the roof through the skylight."

"Next time I would appreciate a warning."

"There was a slight chance it could have been Hatherley."

"He's just published an article, "The Unknown Stephen Murstow," it starts by discussing artistic collaborations, then goes into a lengthy diatribe about police incompetence. He wants Greg to be guilty of something."

"Murstow was writing a memoir, and there were letters, perhaps photographs, Lestrade stole them to protect his wife's reputation."

"His _wife's_ reputation… did he actually say that? She sent me a text about the memorial, but I won't be going. Work calls," John said.

* * *

_Are you going to the memorial? – SH_  
_Yes. – GL_  
_Bring my Christmas present. – SH_

"Sherlock Holmes." Nina Lestrade had a drink in one hand and an elderly gentleman attached to the other. The wilted hair and downward slope of his shoulders made him look like a willow tree that had suddenly become ambulatory. "I've been telling everyone how brilliant you were about the case."

"Please don't."

"Lord Balmoral, this is Sherlock Holmes, one of Greg's colleagues."

"Greg… is he here, my dear?"

"Of course not. He doesn't care for parties"

"A shame. Tell your delightful husband, as always, my offer still stands. Are you a copper?" Lord Balmoral's eyebrows bristled at Sherlock.

"Definitely not. I'm a consulting detective, the only one—"

"Detective, eh? Divorces and what not, keeping you busy." He drifted away.

"Lord Balmoral has a magnificent Turner coming up for auction soon. We'd like it to stay accessible to the public and not become part of some tax avoidance scheme, but there are certain Russian billionaires who are making the kinds of offers that can't be refused, especially when you are very unlucky at cards."

"Offers, Lord Balmoral mentioned an offer. What was that about?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you. Greg would be so angry—he has no sense of humour anymore. I will say that Greg's time working undercover in Soho coincided with Lord Balmoral's search for love in highly inappropriate places."

"Is he really not here?"

"I'm afraid the only place you'll find him is on the wall." She led Sherlock into the other room where the walls were covered in photographs. "Stephen was organising these and writing captions on them for his book."

Polaroids, leftover from a pre-digital age. Some of them were as dull and self-congratulatory as one would expect, painters and writers and drinkers, arms thrown around each other's shoulders. The other photographs would have a different name if they were sold in a corner shop, but in a gallery, they were art. Improbable combinations of bodies and positions juxtaposed with the mundane. _Turner Prize 1994_ next to _this is why Gemma asked for a divorce_ next to _Lucian Freud_ next to _my kitchen garden_.

"Photography, faithful and disappointing. How we would have despaired if we could have seen what we would become, so old and grey."

Sherlock stifled a laugh. "Photographs, of course, it's always photographs."

"I was giving you the chance to pay me a compliment," Nina said.

"You don't need me to flatter you. Your friend Graham is making his way over here, drink in hand, and he'll tell you whatever you want to hear." One of the captions caught his eye.

_Nina helps the police with their inquiries._ Sherlock knew it was Lestrade, but the man in the photograph was someone he didn't know at all.

Nina plucked the photo from the wall. "The estate shouldn't mind—considering all you've done."

"Oh, these have all been catalogued," Penny had a clipboard and had traded in her impractical heels for white cowboy boots. "Can we talk for a moment?" She twitched her clipboard in a way that said _follow me_.

Sherlock tucked the photograph into his pocket.

"He's here. Greg, Inspector Lestrade, I mean. He came before it opened and I let him in and we talked. I think he didn't want to see his wife, or anyone else, really, so I said he could wait in the upstairs office, have a coffee."

Sherlock hopped over the velvet rope, up the stairs two at a time. Knowing everything was satisfying. He'd never given much, or any thought to Lestrade's private life. He knew Lestrade must have one, most people did, but it was all irrelevant—the house in the suburbs, the faithless wife, the years before they'd met.

The photographs Lestrade had stolen, judging from what was on that wall, they must have featured him with more than a drink in his hand. And where were they now? Lestrade had gone to the studio, light burglary, then on to Scotland Yard. He would never keep something so career-damaging at work, which left his house. Sherlock wondered if it would be easier to invite himself over, or if Lestrade would believe that he just happened to be in the neighbourhood one day. Sherlock's heart beat faster as he approached the office and he told himself it was because of the fantastic opportunities for blackmail the photographs presented. Lestrade would never again be able to say no to Sherlock's perfectly reasonable requests.

There was a faint trace of mint in the air. "You wanted a cigarette, but settled on Trident, which you disposed of when you heard me outside the door. Good choice. It's impossible to hold a serious conversation with an adult who is chewing gum."

"A serious conversation with you? I thought that didn't happen outside crime scenes." Lestrade was sitting at the desk, as relaxed as if it were his own office. His left hand was still bare.

"Why now?" Sherlock asked.

"There was a moment, before we were married, I went to her flat to pack her things, looked in the wardrobe, saw Hatherley's shirts hanging there, and thought, six months, a year from now, someone else is going to be collecting her things from our wardrobe."

"But you were in love."

"Don't say it like that. We had three good years, and then about a month after I passed the sergeant's exam, she eloped with a britpop drummer. There was some trouble, I don't know if you heard about the serial killings in Islington, never solved, and she came back. In spite of everything, I knew she was always on my side. You don't understand, do you? It's like you and John."

"We're not a couple, Lestrade."

"No, but with the two of you, you know you can trust him."

"She said you abandoned her in Spain."

"I hung up on your brother when he called. I told him that you would be perfectly fine hunting ghost dogs on your own, and if not, well, you'd be completely unbearable if you solved every case."

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "They are not _unsolved_, they're not solved _yet_."

"My wife said, 'If you're going to play Oddjob to Mycroft's Blofeld, you should at least get Chief Inspector out of it.' Oddjob is—"

"_Goldfinger_, I know. John made us have Bond night once. Oddjob works for Goldfinger, not Blofeld."

"That's what I said. And left."

"You didn't know they knew each other."

"What do you think they talk about, my wife and your brother? The euro crisis? Tottenham vs Chelsea?"

"The weather. Maybe she's giving him private art history lessons. I doubt it's an affair."

"I wasn't thinking that. God, no."

"Photographs."

"You have photos of them? Doing what?"

"Don't be ridiculous. The photographs you stole. Where are they?"

Lestrade grinned. The determination on Sherlock's face distracted him from imagining his wife's tea parties with Mycroft Holmes. "It's not stealing to take what's yours."

"Is that a legal principle? I want to see them. Where are they?"

"Destroyed."

"You didn't keep them?"

"Everything's non-discriminatory these days, at least on paper. I only took the ones where you could see my face. There might be others; you'll have to buy the book and find out." Everything about Lestrade said he was telling the truth.

"You can buy it for me next Christmas. What happened to my present?"

Lestrade reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. Nicotine patches.

"You really did do your shopping at the train station."

"You're welcome. At least Molly got a thank you kiss." Lestrade leaned back in the chair, too pleased, like he'd won a point in a game.

Sherlock wanted to do something Lestrade wouldn't expect, something that would wipe that expression off his face. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the desk, directly in front of Lestrade, who moved the chair back slightly, making room for Sherlock. Before he could move away completely, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

Lestrade's lips were dry and soft, and Sherlock felt them open as he gently touched them with his tongue. He wasn't prepared for Lestrade to kiss him back, wasn't prepared for Lestrade to slide his arms around his waist. Sherlock felt like he was going to lose his balance, the chair wasn't meant to hold two people, but he didn't want to stop.

Lestrade drew back and studied Sherlock's face. He ran his thumb along the flushed cheeks, the reddened lips.

"Sherlock, do you want to go somewhere else?" Lestrade asked.

And Sherlock surprised him again by nodding yes.

"The people downstairs, I don't want to see any of them." Lestrade pressed the office key into Sherlock's hand. "Give this to Penny, then meet me at the taxi rank."

Penny was doing her best to guide the guests into a screening room, but the bar was more exciting than her and her clipboard. Sherlock tossed her the key; she caught it easily and thanked him, not just for the key, but for everything.

Nina waved at him from the bar. "Would you like another souvenir, Inspector Holmes?" She pointed to the part of the wall marked 1991. "He has a birthmark—I'm not going to say where—you're the detective."

"He's at the taxi rank," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?" Her smile faded.

"He was here, he's getting a taxi, so if you want to talk to him, you'd better go now."

Sherlock studied the photographs on the wall. Birthmark, who didn't have a birthmark?

Lestrade had never actually said that his marriage was over. It would be better if he reconciled with his wife, remained a policeman instead of a person. The work was important; everything else was distraction. Birthmark. This had to be it. This one as well.

"You're not allowed to take things," he heard someone say as he pulled the photographs off the wall.

"It's not stealing to take what's yours," Sherlock said. The pieces had all clicked into place, and he was ready for a new challenge.


End file.
